AN 


ADDRESS 


DELIVERED 


ON    THE    DEDICATION 


CEMETERY  AT  MOUNT  AUBURN, 


SEPTEMBER  24,  183K 


BY    JOSEPH    STORY 


TO    WHICH    IS    ADDED    AN    APPENDIX,    CONTAINING    A    HISTORICAL    NOTICE 

AND    DESCRIPTION    OF    THE    PLACE,    WITH    A    LIST    OF    THE 

PRESENT    SUBSCRIBERS. 


BOSTON 

JOSEPH  T.  &,  EDWIN  BUCKINGHAM. 
1831. 


ADDRESS 


DELIVERED 


ON    THE    DEDICATION 


CEMETERY  AT  MOUNT  AUBURN, 


SEPTEMBER  24,  1831. 


BY    JOSEPH    STORY 


TO    WHICH    IS    ADDED    AN    APPENDIX,    CONTAINING    A    HISTORICAL    NOTICE 

AND    DESCRIPTION    OF    THE    PLACE,    WITH    A    LIST    OF    THE 

PRESENT    SUBSCRIBERS. 


BOSTON 

JOSEPH  T.  &  EDWIN  BUCKINGHAM. 
1831. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  MASSACHUSETTS 
AT  AMHERST 


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UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

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ADDRESS. 


My  Friends, 

The  occasion,  which  brings  us  together,  has  much 
in  it  calculated  to  awaken  our  sensibilities,  and  cast  a 
solemnity  over  our  thoughts. 

We  are  met  to  consecrate  these  grounds  exclusively 
to  the  service  and  repose  of  the  dead. 

The  duty  is  not  new  ;  for  it  has  been  performed 
for  countless  millions.  The  scenery  is  not  new  ;  for 
the  hill  and  the  valley,  the  still,  silent  dell,  and  the 
deep  forest,  have  often  been  devoted  to  the  same 
pious  purpose.  But  that,  which  must  always  give  it 
a  peculiar  interest,  is,  that  it  can  rarely  occur  except 
at  distant  intervals  ;  and,  whenever  it  does,  it  must 
address  itself  to  feelings  intelligible  to  all  nations,  and 
common  to  all  hearts. 

The  patriarchal  language  of  four  thousand  years 
ago  is  precisely  that,  to  which  we  would  now  give 
utterance.  We  are  "  strangers  and  sojourners"  here. 
We  have  need  of  "  a  possession  of  a  burying-place, 
that  we  may  bury  our  dead  out  of  our  sight."  Let 
us  have    "  the  field,  and  the  cave  which  is  therein  ; 


and  all  the  trees,  that  are  in  the  field,  and  that  are  in 
the  borders  round  about ;"  and  let  them  "  be  made 
sure  for  a  possession  of  a  burying-place." 

It  is  the  duty  of  the  living  thus  to  provide  for  the 
dead.  It  is  not  a  mere  office  of  pious  regard  for  oth- 
ers ;  but  it  comes  home  to  our  own  bosoms,  as  those 
who  are  soon  to  enter  upon  the  common  inheritance. 

If  there  are  any  feelings  of  our  nature,  not  bound- 
ed by  earth,  and  yet  stopping  short  of  the  skies, 
which  are  more  strong  and  more  universal  than  all 
others,  they  will  be  found  in  our  solicitude  as  to  the 
time  and  place  and  manner  of  our  death  ;  in  the  de- 
sire to  die  in  the  arms  of  our  friends  ;  to  have  the 
last  sad  offices  to  our  remains  performed  by  their  af- 
fection ;  to  repose  in  the  land  of  our  nativity  ;  to  be 
gathered  to  the  sepulchres  of  our  fathers.  It  is  al- 
most impossible  for  us  to  feel,  nay,  even  to  feign,  in- 
difference on  such  a  subject. 

Poetry  has  told  us  this  truth  in  lines  of  transcend- 
ant  beauty  and  force,  which  find  a  response  in  every 
breast  ; — 

For  who,  ?to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies  ; 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries  ; 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

It  is  in  vain,  that  Philosophy  has  informed  us,  that 
the  whole  earth  is  but  a  point  in  the  eyes  of  its  Cre- 
ator,— nay,  of  his  own  creation  ;  that,  wherever  we 


are, — abroad  or  at  home, — on  the  restless  oeean,  or 
the  solid  hind, — we  are  still  under  the  protection  of 
his  providence,  and  safe,  as  it  were,  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand.  It  is  in  vain,  that  Religion  has  instructed 
us,  that  we  are  but  dust,  and  to  dust  we  shall  return, — 
that  whether  our  remains  are  scattered  to  the  corners 
of  the  earth,  or  gathered  in  sacred  urns,  there  is  a 
sure  and  certain  hope  of  a  resurrection  of  the  body 
and  a  life  everlasting.  These  truths,  sublime  and 
glorious  as  they  are,  leave  untouched  the  feelings,  of 
which  I  have  spoken,  or,  rather,  they  impart  to  them 
a  more  enduring  reality.  Dust  as  we  are,  the  frail 
tenements,  which  enclose  our  spirits  but  for  a  season, 
are  dear,  are  inexpressibly  dear  to  us.  We  derive 
solace,  nay,  pleasure,  from  the  reflection,  that  when 
the  hour  of  separation  comes,  these  earthly  remains 
will  still  retain  the  tender  regard  of  those,  whom  we 
leave  behind  ; — that  the  spot,  where  they  shall  lie, 
will  be  remembered  with  a  fond  and  soothing  reve- 
rence ; — that  our  children  will  visit  it  in  the  midst  of 
their  sorrows  ;  and  our  kindred  in  remote  generations 
feel  that  a  local  inspiration  hovers  round  it. 

Let  him  speak,  who  has  been  on  a  pilgrimage  of 
health  to  a  foreign  land.  Let  him  speak,  who  has 
watched  at  the  couch  of  a  dying  friend,  far  from  his 
chosen  home.  Let  him  speak,  who  has  committed 
to  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  with  a  sudden,  startling 
plunge,  the  narrow  shroud  of  some  relative  or  com- 
panion. Let  such  speak,  and  they  will  tell  you,  that 
there  is  nothing,  which  wrings  the  heart  of  the 
dying, — aye,   and    of    the  surviving, — with    sharper 


agony,  than  the  thought,  that  they  are  to  sleep  their 
last  sleep  in  the  land  of  strangers,  or  in  the  unseen 
depths  of  the  ocean. 

"  Bury  me  not,  I  pray  thee,"  said  the  patriarch 
Jacob,  "  bury  me  not  in  Egypt  :  but  I  will  lie  with 
my  fathers.  And  thou  shalt  carry  me  out  of  Egypt ; 
and  bury  me  in  their  burying-place."  —  "  There  they 
buried  Abraham  and  Sarah  his  wife  ;  there  they  bu- 
ried Isaac  and  Rebecca  his  wife  ;  and  there  I  buried 
Leah." 

Such  are  the  natural  expressions  of  human  feeling, 
as  they  fall  from  the  lips  of  the  dying.  Such  are  the 
reminiscences,  that  forever  crowd  on  the  confines  of 
the  passes  to  the  grave.  We  seek  again  to  have  our 
home  there  with  our  friends,  and  to  be  blest  by  a 
communion  with  them.  It  is  a  matter  of  instinct, 
not  of  reasoning.  It  is  a  spiritual  impulse,  which 
supersedes  belief,  and  disdains  question. 

But  it  is  not  chiefly  in  regard  to  the  feelings  be- 
longing to  our  own  mortality,  however  sacred  and 
natural,  that  we  should  contemplate  the  establish- 
ment of  repositories  of  this  sort.  There  are  higher 
moral  purposes,  and  more  affecting  considerations, 
which  belong  to  the  subject.  We  should  accustom 
ourselves  to  view  them  rather  as  means,  than  as 
ends  ;  rather  as  influences  to  govern  human  conduct, 
and  to  moderate  human  suffering,  than  as  cares  inci- 
dent to  a  selfish  foresight. 

It  is  to  the  living  mourner — to  the  parent,  weeping 
over  his  dear  dead  child — to  the  husband,  dwell- 
ing in  his  own  solitary  desolation — to  the  widow, 


whose  heart  is  broken  bj  untimely  sorrow — to  the 
friend,  who  misses  at  every  turn  the  presence  of  some 
kindred  spirit — It  is  to  these,  that  the  repositories 
of  the  dead  bring  home  thoughts  full  of  admonition, 
of  instruction,  and,  slowly  but  surely,  of  consolation 
also.  They  admonish  us,  by  their  very  silence,  of  our 
own  frail  and  transitory  being.  They  instruct  us  in 
the  true  value  of  life,  and  in  its  noble  purposes,  its 
duties,  and  its  destination.  They  spread  around  usr 
in  the  reminiscences  of  the  past,  sources  of  pleasing, 
though  melancholy  reflection. 

We  dwell  with  pious  fondness  on  the  characters  and 
virtues  of  the  departed  ;  and,  as  time  interposes  its 
growing  distances  between  us  and  them,  we  gather 
up,  with  more  solicitude,  the  broken  fragments  of 
memory,  and  weave,  as  it  were,  into  our  very  hearts, 
the  threads  of  their  history.  As  we  sit  down  by 
their  graves,  we  seem  to  hear  the  tones  of  their  af- 
fection, whispering  in  our  ears.  We  listen  to  the 
voice  of  their  wisdom,  speaking  in  the  depths  of  our 
souls.  We  shed  our  tears  ;  but  they  fare  no  longer 
the  burning  tears  of  agony.  They  relieve  our  droop- 
ing spirits,  and  come  no  longer  over  us  with  a  death- 
ly faintness.  We  return  to  the  world,  and  we  feel 
ourselves  purer,  and  better,  and  wiser,  from  this  com- 
munion with  the  dead. 

I  have  spoken  but  of  feelings  and  associations  com- 
mon to  all  ages,  and  all  generations  of  men — to  the 
rude  and  the  polished — to  the  barbarian  and  the  civ- 
ilized— to  the  bond  and  the  free — to  the  inhabitant 
of  the  dreary  forests  of  the  north,  and  the  sultry  re- 


8 

gions  of  the  south — to  the  worshipper  of  the  sun,  and 
the  worshipper  of  idols — to  the  Heathen,  dwelling 
in  the  darkness  of  his  cold  mythology,  and  to  the 
Christian,  rejoicing  in  the  light  of  the  true  God. 
Every  where  we  trace  them  in  the  characteristic  re- 
mains of  the  most  distant  ages  and  nations,  and  as 
far  back  as  human  history  carries  its  traditionary  out- 
lines. They  are  found  in  the  barrows,  and  cairns, 
and  mounds  of  olden  times,  reared  by  the  uninstruct- 
ed  affection  of  savage  tribes  ;  and,  every  where,  the 
spots  seem  to  have  been  selected  with  the  same  ten- 
der regard  to  the  living  and  the  dead  ;  that  the  mag- 
nificence of  nature  might  administer  comfort  to  hu- 
man sorrow,  and  incite  human  sympathy. 

The  aboriginal  Germans  buried  their  dead  in  groves 
consecrated  by  their  priests.  The  Egyptians  gratified 
their  pride  and  soothed  their  grief,  by  interring  them 
in  their  Elysian  fields,  or  embalming  them  in  their 
vast  catacombs,  or  enclosing  them  in  their  stupendous 
pyramids,  the  wonder  of  all  succeeding  ages.  The 
Hebrews  watched  with  religious  care  over  their  places 
of  burial.  They  selected,  for  this  purpose,  orna- 
mented gardens,  and  deep  forests,  and  fertile  valleys, 
and  lofty  mountains  ;  and  they  still  designate  them 
with  a  sad  emphasis,  as  the  "  House  of  the  Living." 
The  ancient  Asiatics  lined  the  approaches  to  their 
cities  with  sculptured  sarcophagi,  and  mausoleums, 
and  other  ornaments,  embowered  in  shrubbery,  traces 
of  which  may  be  seen  among  their  magnificent  ruins. 
The  Greeks  exhausted  the  resources  of  their  exquis- 
ite   art    in  adorning    the   habitations    of    the    dead. 


They  discouraged   interments    within   the   limits   of 
their  cities  ;    and  consigned  their  reliques  to  shady 
groves,  in  the  neighborhood   of   murmuring   streams 
and  mossy  fountains,  close  by  the  favorite   resorts  of 
those,  who  were  engaged   in  the  study  of  philoso- 
phy and  nature,  and   called   them,   with   the  elegant 
expressiveness  of  their  own  beautiful  language,  Ceme- 
teries,* or  "  Places  of   Repose."      The  Romans, 
faithful  to  the  example  of  Greece,  erected  the  mon- 
uments to  the  dead  in  the  suburbs  of  the  eternal  city, 
(as  they  proudly  denominated  it,)  on  the  sides  of  their 
spacious  roads,  in  the  midst  of  trees  and  ornamental 
walks,  and  ever-varying  flowers.      The  Appian  way 
was  crowded  with  columns,  and   obelisks,  and  ceno- 
taphs to  the  memory  of  her  heroes  and   sages  ;  and, 
at  every  turn,  the  short  but  touching  inscription  met 
the  eye,  — Siste  Viator, — Pause  Traveller, — inviting 
at  once  to  sympathy  and  thoughtfulness.      Even  the 
humblest  Roman  could  read  on  the  humblest  grave- 
stone the  kind  offering — "  May  the  earth  lie  lightly  on 
these  remains  !"f  And  the  Moslem  Successors  of  the 
emperors,  indifferent  as  they  may  be  to  the   ordinary 
exhibitions  of  the  fine  arts,  place  their  burying-grounds 
in  rural  retreats,  and  embellish  them  with   studious 
taste  as  a  religious  duty.     The  cypress  is  planted  at 
the  head  and  foot  of  every  grave,  and  waves  with  a 
mournful  solemnity  over  it.     These  devoted  grounds 
possess  an  inviolable  sanctity.     The  ravages  of  war 
never  reach  them  ;  and  victory  and  defeat  equally  re- 
spect the  limits  of  their  domain.     So  that  it  has  been 

*  Xoiferepia— literally  ,  places  of  sleep.         t  "  Sit  tibi  terra  levis." 
o 


10 

remarked,  with  equal  truth  and  beauty,  that  while  the 
cities  of  the  living  are  subject  to  all  the  desolations 
and  vicissitudes  incident  to  human  affairs,  the  cities 
of  the  dead  enjoy  an  undisturbed  repose,  without 
even  the  shadow  of  change. 

But  I  will  not  dwell  upon  facts  of  this  nature. 
They  demonstrate,  however,  the  truth,  of  which  I 
have  spoken.  They  do  more  ;  they  furnish  reflec- 
tions suitable  for  our  own  thoughts  on  the  present 
occasion. 

If  this  tender  regard  for  the  dead  be  so  absolutely 
universal,  and  so  deeply  founded  in  human  affection, 
why  is  it  not  made  to  exert  a  more  profound  influence 
on  our  lives  ?  Why  do  we  not  enlist  it  with  more  per- 
suasive energy  in  the  cause  of  human  improvement  ? 
Why  do  we  not  enlarge  it  as  a  source  of  religious 
consolation  ?  Why  do  we  not  make  it  a  more  efficient 
instrument  to  elevate  Ambition,  to  stimulate  Genius, 
and  to  dignify  Learning  ?  Why  do  we  not  connect  it 
indissolubly  with  associations,  which  charm  us  in  Na- 
ture and  engross  us  in  Art  ?  Why  do  we  not  dispel 
from  it  that  unlovely  gloom,  from  which  our  hearts 
turn  as  from  a  darkness,  that  ensnares,  and  a  horror, 
that  appalls  our  thoughts  ? 

To  many,  nay,  to  most  of  the  heathen,  the  bury- 
ing-place  was  the  end  of  all  things.  They  indulged 
no  hope,  at  least,  no  solid  hope,  of  any  future  inter- 
course or  re-union  with  their  friends.  The  farewell 
at  the  grave  was  a  long,  and  an  everlasting  farewell. 
At  the  moment,  when  they  breathed  it,  it  brought  to 
their  hearts  a  startling  sense  of  their  own  wretched- 


11 

ness.  Yet,  when  the  first  tumults  of  anguish  were 
passed,  they  visited  the  spot,  and  strewed  Mowers,  and 
garlands,  and  crowns  around  it,  to  assuage  their  grief, 

and  nourish  their  piety.  They  delighted  to  make  it 
the  abode  of  the  varying  bounties  of  Nature  ;  to  give 
it  attractions,  which  should  invite  the  busy  and  the 
thoughtful ;  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  afford  ample 
scope  for  the  secret  indulgence  of  sorrow. 

Why  should  not  Christians  imitate  such  examples  ? 
They  have  far  nobler  motives  to  cultivate  moral  sen- 
timents and  sensibilities ;  to  make  cheerful  the  path- 
ways to  the  grave  ;  to  combine  with  deep  meditations 
on  human  mortality  the  sublime  consolations  of  re- 
ligion. We  know,  indeed,  as  they  did  of  old,  that 
"  man  goeth  to  his  long  home,  and  the  mourners  go 
about  the  streets."  But  that  home  is  not  an  ever- 
lasting home  ;  and  the  mourners  may  not  weep  as 
those,  who  are  without  hope.  What  is  the  grave  to 
Us,  but  a  thin  barrier  dividing  Time  from  Eternity, 
and  Earth  from  Heaven  ?  What  is  it  but  "  the  ap- 
pointed place  of  rendezvous,  where  all  the  travellers 
on  life's  journey  meet"  for  a  single  night  of  repose— 

"  'T  is  but  a  night — a  long  and  moonless  night, 
We  make  the  Grave  our  Bed,  and  then  are  gone.'' 

Know  we  not 

"  The  time  draws  on 

When  not  a  single  spot  of  burial  earth, 
Whether  on  land,  or  in  the  spacious  sea, 
B\it  must  give  up  its  long  committed  dust 
Inviolate  ?:? — 

WThy  then  should  we  darken  with  systematic  caution 
all  the  avenues  to  these  repositories  ?  Why  should 


12 

we  deposit  the  remains  of  our  friends  in  loathsome 
vaults,  or  beneath  the  gloomy  crypts  and  cells  of  our 
churches,  where  the  human  foot  is  never  heard,  save 
when  the  sickly  taper  lights  some  new  guest  to  his 
appointed  apartment,  and  "  lets  fall  a  supernumerary 
horror"  on  the  passing  procession  ?  Why  should  we 
measure  out  a  narrow  portion  of  earth  for  our  grave- 
yards in  the  midst  of  our  cities,  and  heap  the  dead 
upon  each  other  with  a  cold,  calculating  parsimony, 
disturbing  their  ashes,  and  wounding  the  sensibilities 
of  the  living  ?  Why  should  we  expose  our  burying- 
grounds  to  the  broad  glare  of  day,  to  the  unfeeling 
gaze  of  the  idler,  to  the  noisy  press  of  business,  to 
the  discordant  shouts  of  merriment,  or  to  the  baleful 
visitations  of  the  dissolute  ?  Why  should  we  bar  up 
their  approaches  against  real  mourners,  whose  deli- 
cacy would  shrink  from  observation,  but  whose  ten- 
derness would  be  soothed  by  secret  visits  to  the  grave, 
and  holding  converse  there  with  their  departed  joys  ? 
Why  all  this  unnatural  restraint  upon  our  sympathies 
and  sorrows,  which  confines  the  visit  to  the  grave  to 
the  only  time,  in  which  it  must  be  utterly  useless — 
when  the  heart  is  bleeding  with  fresh  anguish,  and  is 
too  weak  to  feel,  and  too  desolate  to  desire  conso- 
lation ? 

It  is  painful  to  reflect,  that  the  Cemeteries  in  our 
cities,  crowded  on  all  sides  by  the  overhanging  hab- 
itations of  the  living,  are  walled  in  only  to  preserve 
them  from  violation.  And  that  in  our  country  towns 
they  are  left  in  a  sad,  neglected  state,  exposed  to 
every  sort  of  intrusion,  with  scarcely  a  tree  to  shelter 


IS 

their  barrenness,  or  a  shrub  to  spread  a  grateful  shade 
over  the  new-made  hillock. 

These  things  were  not  always  so  among  christians. 
They  are  not  worthy  of  us.  They  are  not  worthy  of 
Christianity  in  our  day.  There  is  much  in  these 
things,  that  casts  a  just  reproach  upon  us  in  the  past. 
There  is  much,  that  demands  for  the  future  a  more 
spiritual  discharge  of  our  duties. 

Our  Cemeteries  rightly  selected,  and  properly  ar- 
ranged, may  be  made  subservient  to  some  of  the  high- 
est purposes  of  religion  and  human  duty.  They  may 
preach  lessons,  to  which  none  may  refuse  to  listen, 
and  which  all,  that  live,  must  hear.  Truths  may 
be  there  felt  and  taught  in  the  silence  of  our  own 
meditations,  more  persuasive,  and  more  enduring, 
than  ever  flowed  from  human  lips.  The  grave 
hath  a  voice  of  eloquence,  nay,  of  superhuman 
eloquence,  which  speaks  at  once  to  the  thoughtless- 
ness of  the  rash,  and  the  devotion  of  the  good  ;  which 
addresses  all  times,  and  all  ages,  and  all  sexes  ;  which 
tells  of  wisdom  to  the  wise,  and  of  comfort  to  the 
afflicted ;  which  warns  us  of  our  follies  and  our  r 
dangers ;  which  whispers  to  us  in  accents  of  peace, 
and  alarms  us  in  tones  of  terror ;  which  steals  with 
a  healing  balm  into  the  stricken  heart,  and  lifts  up 
and  supports  the  broken  spirit ;  which  awakens  a 
new  enthusiasm  for  virtue,  and  disciplines  us  for  its 
severer  trials  and  duties  ;  which  calls  up  the  images 
of  the  illustrious  dead,  with  an  animating  presence  for 
our  example  and  glory ;  and  which  demands  of  us,  as 
men,  as  patriots,  as  christians,  as  immortals,  that  the 


14 

powers  given  by  God  should  be  devoted  to  his  ser- 
vice, and  the  minds  created  by  his  love,  should  return 
to  him  with  larger  capacities  for  virtuous  enjoyment, 
and  with  more  spiritual  and  intellectual  brightness. 

It  should  not  be  for  the  poor  purpose  of  gratifying 
our  vanity  or  pride,  that  we  should  erect  columns, 
and  obelisks,  and  monuments  to  the  dead ;  but  that 
we  may  read  thereon  much  of  our  own  destiny  and 
duty.  We  know,  that  man  is  the  creature  of  associa- 
tions and  excitements.  Experience  may  instruct, 
but  habit,  and  appetite,  and  passion,  and  imagination, 
will  exercise  a  strong  dominion  over  him.  These  are 
the  Fates,  which  weave  the  thread  of  his  character, 
and  unravel  the  mysteries  of  his  conduct.  The  truth, 
which  strikes  home,  must  not  only  have  the  approba- 
tion of  his  reason,  but  it  must  be  embodied  in  a  visi- 
ble, tangible,  practical  form.  It  must  be  felt,  as  well 
as  seen.     It  must  warm,  as  well  as  convince. 

It  was  a  saying  of  Themistocles,  that  the  trophies 
of  Miltiades  would  not  suffer  him  to  sleep.  The  feel- 
ing, thus  expressed,  has  a  deep  foundation  in  the  hu- 
man mind  ;  and,  as  it  is  well  or  ill  directed,  it  will 
cover  us  with  shame,  or  exalt  us  to  glory.  The  deeds 
of  the  great  attract  but  a  cold  and  listless  admiration, 
when  they  pass  in  historical  order  before  us  like  mov- 
ing shadows.  It  is  the  trophy  and  the  monument, 
which  invest  them  with  a  substance  of  local  reality. 
Who,  that  has  stood  by  the  tomb  of  Washington  on 
the  quiet  Potomac,  has  not  felt  his  heart  more  pure, 
his  wishes  more  aspiring,  his  gratitude  more  warm, 
and  his  love  of  country  touched   by  a  holier  flame  ? 


15 

Who,  that  should  sco  creeled  in  shades,  like  these, 
even  a  cenotaph  to  the  memory  of  a  man,  like  Buck- 
minster,  that  prodigj  of  early  genius,  would  not  feel, 
that  there  is  an  excellence  over  which  death  hath  no 
power,  but  which  lives  on  through  all  time,  still  fresh- 
ening with  the  lapse  of  ages. 

But  passing  from  those,  who  by  their  talents  and 
virtues  have  shed  lustre  on  the  annals  of  mankind,  to 
cases  of  mere  private  bereavement,  who,  that  should 
deposit  in  shades,  like  these,  the  remains  of  a  beloved 
friend,  would  not  feel  a  secret  pleasure  in  the  thought, 
that  the  simple  inscription  to  his  worth  would  receive 
the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh  from  thousands  of  kin- 
dred hearts  ?  That  the  stranger  and  the  traveller 
would  linger  on  the  spot  with  a  feeling  of  reverence  ? 
That  they,  the  very  mourners  themselves,  when  they 
should  revisit  it,  would  find  there  the  verdant  sod, 
and  the  fragrant  flower,  and  the  breezy  shade  ?  That 
they  might  there,  unseen,  except  of  God,  offer  up 
their  prayers,  or  indulge  the  luxury  of  grief  ?  That 
they  might  there  realize,  in  its  full  force,  the  affect- 
ing beatitude  of  the  scriptures  ;  "  Blessed  are  they 
that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted  ?" 

Surely,  surely,  we  have  not  done  all  our  duty,  if 
there  yet  remains  a  single  incentive  to  human  virtue, 
without  its  due  play  in  the  action  of  life,  or  a  single 
stream  of  happiness,  which  has  not  been  made  to 
flow  in  upon  the  waters  of  affliction. 

Considerations,  like  those,  which  have  been  sug- 
gested, have  for  a  long  time  turned  the  thoughts  of 
many  distinguished  citizens  to  the  importance  of  some 


16 

more  appropriate  places  of  sepulture.  There  is  a 
growing  sense  in  the  community  of  the  inconvenien- 
ces, and  painful  associations,  not  to  speak  of  the  un- 
healthiness  of  interments,  beneath  our  churches.  The 
tide,  which  is  flowing  with  such  a  steady  and  widen- 
ing current  into  the  narrow  peninsula  of  our  Metrop- 
olis, not  only  forbids  the  enlargement  of  the  common 
limits,  but  admonishes  us  of  the  increasing  dangers 
to  the  ashes  of  the  dead  from  its  disturbing  move- 
ments. Already  in  other  cities,  the  church-yards  are 
closing  against  the  admission  of  new  incumbents,  and 
begin  to  exhibit  the  sad  spectacle  of  promiscuous 
ruins  and  intermingled  graves. 

We  are,  therefore,  but  anticipating  at  the  present 
moment,  the  desires,  nay  the  necessities  of  the  next 
generation.  We  are  but  exercising  a  decent  anxiety 
to  secure  an  inviolable  home  for  ourselves  and  our 
posterity.  We  are  but  inviting  our  children  and  their 
descendants,  to  what  the  Moravian  Brothers  have, 
with  such  exquisite  propriety,  designated  as  "  the 
Field  of  Peace." 

A  rural  Cemetery  seems  to  combine  in  itself  all  the 
advantages,  which  can  be  proposed  to  gratify  human 
feelings,  or  tranquillize  human  fears  ;  to  secure  the 
best  religious  influences,  and  to  cherish  all  those  as- 
sociations, which  cast  a  cheerful  light  over  the  dark- 
ness of  the  grave. 

And  what  spot  can  be  more  appropriate  than  this, 
for  such  a  purpose  ?  Nature  seems  to  point  it  out 
with  significant  energy,  as  the  favorite  retirement  for 
the  dead.     There   are  around  us   all   the  varied  fea- 


17 

lures  of  her  beauty  and  grandeur — the  forest-crowned 
height;  the  abrupt  acclivity;  the  sheltered   valley; 

the  deep  glen ;  the  grassy  glade ;  and  tin-  silent 
grove.  Here  are  the  lofty  oak,  the  beech,  that 
"  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high,"  the  rust- 
ling pine,  and  the  drooping  willow ; — the  tree,  that 
sheds  its  pale  leaves  with  every  autumn,  a  fit  emblem 
of  our  own  transitory  bloom  ;  and  the  evergreen,  with 
its  perennial  shoots,  instructing  us,  that  "  the  wintry 
blast  of  death  kills  not  the  buds  of  virtue."  Here  is 
the  thick  shrubbery  to  protect  and  conceal  the  new- 
made  grave  ;  and  there  is  the  wild-flower  creeping 
along  the  narrow  path,  and  planting  its  seeds  in  the 
upturned  earth.  All  around  us  there  breathes  a 
solemn  calm,  as  if  we  were  in  the  bosom  of  a  wil- 
derness, broken  only  by  the  breeze  as  it  murmurs 
through  the  tops  of  the  forest,  or  by  the  notes  of  the 
warbler  pouring  forth  his  matin  or  his  evening  song. 
Ascend  but  a  few  steps,  and  what  a  change  of 
scenery  to  surprise  and  delight  us.  We  seem,  as  it 
were  in  an  instant,  to  pass  from  the  confines  of  death, 
to  the  bright  and  balmy  regions  of  life.  Below  us 
flows  the  winding  Charles  with  its  rippling  current, 
like  the  stream  of  time  hastening  to  the  ocean  of 
eternity.  In  the  distance,  the  City, — at  once  the  ob- 
ject of  our  admiration  and  our  love, — rears  its  proud 
eminences,  its  glittering  spires,  its  lofty  towers,  its 
graceful  mansions,  its  curling  smoke,  its  crowded 
haunts  of  business  and  pleasure,  which  speak  to  the 
eye,  and  yet  leave  a  noiseless  loneliness  on  the  ear. 
Again  we  turn,  and  the  walls  of  our  venerable  Uni- 


18 

versity  rise  before  us,  with  many  a  recollection  of 
happy  days  passed  there  in  the  interchange  of  study 
and  friendship,  and  many  a  grateful  thought  of  the 
affluence  of  its  learning,  which  has  adorned  and  nour- 
ished the  literature  of  our  country.  Again  we  turn, 
and  the  cultivated  farm,  the  neat  cottage,  the  village 
church,  the  sparkling  lake,  the  rich  valley,  and  the 
distant  hills,  are  before  us  through  opening  vistas ; 
and  we  breathe  amidst  the  fresh  and  varied  labors  of 
man. 

There  is,  therefore,  within  our  reach,  every  variety 
of  natural  and  artificial  scenery,  which  is  fitted  to 
awaken  emotions  of  the  highest  and  most  affecting 
character.  We  stand,  as  it  were,  upon  the  borders 
of  two  worlds  ;  and  as  the  mood  of  our  minds  may 
be,  we  may  gather  lessons  of  profound  wisdom  by 
contrasting  the  one  with  the  other,  or  indulge  in  the 
dreams  of  hope  and  ambition,  or  solace  our  hearts  by 
melancholy  meditations. 

Who  is  there,  that  in  the  contemplation  of  such  a 
scene,  is  not  ready  to  exclaim  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  Poet, 

"  Mine  be  the  breezy  hill,  that  skirts  the  down, 
Where  a  green,  grassy  turf  is  all  I  crave, 

With  here  and  there  a  violet  bestrown, 

Fast  by  a  brook,  or  fountain's  murmuring  wave, 

And  many  an  evening  sun  shine  sweetly  on  my  grave  ?" 

And  we  are  met  here  to  consecrate  this  spot,  by 
these  solemn  ceremonies,  to  such  a  purpose.  The 
Legislature  of  this  Commonwealth,  with  a  parental 
foresight  has  clothed  the  Horticultural  Society  with 
authority  (if  I  may  use  its  own  language)  to  make 


19 

a  perpetual  dedication  of  it,  as  a  Rural  Cemetery  or 
Burying-Ground,  and  to  plain  and  embellish  it  with 

shrubbery,  and  flowers,  and  trees,  and  walks,  and 
other  rural  ornaments.  And  1  stand  here  by  the  or- 
der and  in  behalf  of  this  Society,  to  declare  that,  by 
these  services,  it  is  to  be  deemed  henceforth  and  for- 
ever so  dedicated.  Mount  Auburn,  in  the  noblest 
sense,  belongs  no  longer  to  the  living,  but  to  the 
dead.  It  is  a  sacred,  it  is  an  eternal  trust.  It  is 
consecrated  ground.  May  it  remain  forever  invio- 
late! 

What  a  multitude  of  thoughts  crowd  upon  the 
mind  in  the  contemplation  of  such  a  scene.  How 
much  of  the  future,  even  in  its  far  distant  reaches, 
rises  before  us  with  all  its  persuasive  realities.  Take 
but  one  little  narrow  space  of  time,  and  how  affecting 
are  its  associations  !  Within  the  flight  of  one  half 
century,  how  many  of  the  great,  the  good,  and  the 
wise,  will  be  gathered  here  !  How  many  in  the  love- 
liness of  infancy,  the  beauty  of  youth,  the  vigor  of 
manhood,  and  the  maturity  of  age,  will  lie  down  here, 
and  dwell  in  the  bosom  of  their  mother  earth  !  The 
rich  and  the  poor,  the  gay  and  the  wretched,  the  fa- 
vorites of  thousands,  and  the  forsaken  of  the  world, 
the  stranger  in  his  solitary  grave,  and  the  patriarch 
surrounded  by  the  kindred  of  a  long  lineage  !  How 
many  will  here  bury  their  brightest  hopes,  or  blasted 
expectations  !  How  many  bitter  tears  will  here  be 
shed  !  How  many  agonizing  sighs  will  here  be  heav- 
ed !     How  many  trembling  feet  will  cross  the  path- 


20 

ways,  and  returning,  leave  behind  them  the  dearest 
objects  of  their  reverence  or  their  love  ! 

And  if  this  were  all,  sad  indeed,  and  funereal  would 
be  our  thoughts  ;  gloomy,  indeed,  would  be  these 
shades,  and  desolate  these  prospects. 

But — thanks  be  to  God — the  evils,  which  he  per- 
mits, have  their  attendant  mercies,  and  are  blessings 
in  disguise.  The  bruised  reed  will  not  be  laid  utterly 
prostrate.  The  wounded  heart  will  not  always  bleed. 
The  voice  of  consolation  will  spring  up  in  the  midst 
of  the  silence  of  these  regions  of  death.  The  mourner 
will  revisit  these  shades  with  a  secret,  though  melan- 
choly pleasure.  The  hand  of  friendship  will  delight 
to  cherish  the  flowers,  and  the  shrubs,  that  fringe  the 
lowly  grave,  or  the  sculptured  monument.  The  ear- 
liest beams  of  the  morning  will  play  upon  these  sum- 
mits with  a  refreshing  cheerfulness  ;  and  the  lingering 
tints  of  evening  hover  on  them  with  a  tranquilizing 
glow.  Spring  will  invite  thither  the  footsteps  of  the 
young  by  its  opening  foliage  ;  and  Autumn  detain  the 
contemplative  by  its  latest  bloom.  The  votary  of 
learning  and  science  will  here  learn  to  elevate  his 
genius  by  the  holiest  studies.  The  devout  will  here 
offer  up  the  silent  tribute  of  pity,  or  the  prayer  of 
gratitude.  The  rivalries  of  the  world  will  here  drop 
from  the  heart ;  the  spirit  of  forgiveness  will  gather 
new  impulses ;  the  selfishness  of  avarice  will  be 
checked ;  [the  restlessness  of  ambition  will  be  re- 
buked ;  vanity  will  let  fall  its  plumes ;  and  pride, 
as  it  sees  "  what  shadows  we  are,  and  what  shadows 


21 

we  pursue,"  will  acknowledge  the  value  of  rirtue  ;is 

far,  immeasurahlv  far,  beyond  that  of  fame. 

But  that,  which  will  he  ever  present,  pervading 
these  shades,  like  the  noon-day  sun,  and  shedding 
cheerfulness  around,  is  the  consciousness,  the  irrepres- 
sible consciousness,  amidst  all  these  lessons  of  human 
mortality,  of  the  higher  truth,  that  we  arc  beings,  not 
of  time  but  of  eternity — "  That  this  corruptible  must 
put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal  must  put  on  im- 
mortality." That  this  is  but  the  threshold  and  start- 
ing point  of  an  existence,  compared  with  whose  dura- 
tion the  ocean  is  but  as  a  drop,  nay  the  whole  crea- 
tion an  evanescent  quantity. 

Let  us  banish,  then,  the  thought,  that  this  is  to  be 
the  abode  of  a  gloom,  which  will  haunt  the  imagina- 
tion by  its  terrors,  or  chill  the  heart  by  its  solitude. 
Let  us  cultivate  feelings  and  sentiments  more  worthy 
of  ourselves,  and  more  worthy  of  Christianity.  Here 
let  us  erect  the  memorials  of  our  love,  and  our  grati- 
tude, and  our  glory.  Here  let  the  brave  repose,  who 
have  died  in  the  cause  of  their  country.  Here  let  the 
statesman  rest,  who  has  achieved  the  victories  of 
peace,  not  less  renowned  than  war.  Here  let  genius 
find  a  home,  that  has  sung  immortal  strains,  or  has 
instructed  with  still  diviner  eloquence.  Here  let 
learning  and  science,  the  votaries  of  inventive  art, 
and  the  teacher  of  the  philosophy  of  nature  come. 
Here  let  youth  and  beauty,  blighted  by  premature 
decay,  drop,  like  tender  blossoms,  into  the  virgin 
earth ;  and  here  let  age  retire,  ripened  for  the  har- 


22 

vest.  Above  all,  here  let  the  benefactors  of  mankind, 
the  good,  the  merciful,  the  meek,  the  pure  in  heart, 
be  congregated ;  for  to  them  belongs  an  undying 
praise.  And  let  us  take  comfort,  nay,  let  us  rejoice, 
that  in  future  ages,  long  after  we  are  gathered  to  the 
generations  of  other  days,  thousands  of  kindling  hearts 
will  here  repeat  the  sublime  declaration,  "  Blessed 
are  the  dead,  that  die  in  the  Lord,  for  they  rest  from 
their  labors  ;  and  their  works  do  follow  them." 


APPENDIX. 

11 V    OED  BB   OF   T  ll  E   COM  M  [TT  r.  I-:. 

The  recent  purchase  and  disposition  of  lli<  grounds  at  Mount 
Auburn,  has  effected  the  consummation  of  two  designs,  which  lor 
a  considerable  time  have  been  cherished  by  numerous  members 

of  the  community,  in  the  city  of  Boston,  and  its  vicinity.  One 
of  these,  is  the  institution  of  a  Garden  for  the  promotion  of  Scien- 
tific Horticulture  ; — the  other,  the  establishment,  in  the  environs 
of  the  city,  of  a  retired  and  ornamented  place  of  Sepulture. 

Six  or  seven  years  ago,  meetings  were  held,  and  measures 
taken,  to  carry  into  effect  the  plan  of  a  private  rural  Cemetery. 
But  although  there  appeared  to  be  no  want  of  interest  in  the  de- 
sign, and  of  numbers  sufficient  to  effect  its  execution,  yet  the 
scheme  was  suspended,  from  the  difficulty  of  obtaining,  at  that 
time,  a  lot  of  land  in  all  respects  eligible  for  the  purpose. 

After  the  establishment  of  the  Massachusetts  Horticultural 
Society,  in  1829,  it  occurred  to  some  of  its  members,  that  a  Ceme- 
tery of  the  character  which  had  been  desired,  might  with  great 
propriety  be  instituted  under  the  auspices  of  this  new  Society, 
and  that  by  a  union  of  the  interests  of  each  institution,  the  suc- 
cess and  permanency  of  their  objects  might  be  reciprocally  pro- 
moted Upon  a  notification  signed  by  Dr.  J.  Bigelow  and  John 
C.  Gray,  Esq.  a  meeting  of  gentlemen  was  held  at  the  Exchange 
Coffee  House,  November  27, 1830,  for  the  general  consideration  of 
the  subject.  At  this  meeting  it  was  announced  that  a  tract  of  ground, 
of  about  seventy  acres,  at  the  place  then  called  Sweet  Auburn, 
find  owned  by  G.  W.  Brimmer,  Esq.,  would  be  placed  at  the  dis- 
posal of  the  Society.  A  committee  was  appointed  at  a  cotem- 
poraneous  meeting  of  the  Horticultural  Society,  to  consider  the 
expediency  of  making  this  purchase,  and  to  devise  measures  for 
forwarding  the  design  of  a  rural  Cemetery  and  experimental  Gar- 
den. This  committee  afterwards  obtained  leave  to  fill  their  own 
vacancies,  and  to  enlarge  their  number  by  the  addition  of  persons 
not  members  of  the  Horticultural  Society.  A  report  in  behalf  of 
this  committee  was  afterwards  made  by  Gen.  H.  A.  S.  Dearborn, 
President  of  the  Society,  and  published  in  the  newspapers,  in 
which  an  extensive  and  able  exposition  was  made  of  the  advan- 
tages of  the  undertaking. 

At  a  meeting  of  persons  favorably  disposed  towards  the  design, 
held  at  the  Horticultural  Rooms,  June  8th,  1831,  a  strong  and 
general  wish  was  manifested  for  the  immediate  prosecution  of  the 
undertaking.  A  committee  of  twenty  was  chosen  to  consider 
and  report  upon  a  general   plan  of  proceedings.     The  following 


24 

gentlemen  constituted  this  committee  : — Messrs.  Joseph  Story, 
Daniel  Webster,  Henry  A.  S.  Dearborn,  Samuel  Appleton, 
Charles  Lowell,  Jacob  Bigelow,  Edward  Everett,  George  Bond, 
George  W.  Brimmer,  Abbot  Lawrence,  James  T.  Austin,  Frank- 
lin Dexter,  Alexander  H.  Everett,  Charles  P.  Curtis,  Joseph  P. 
Bradlee,  John  Pierpont,  Zebedee  Cook,  jr.,  Charles  Tappan, 
Lucius  M.  Sargent,  and  George  W.  Pratt.  This  committee  sub- 
sequently offered  the  following  Report,  which  was  accepted,  and 
made  the  basis  of  subscription  for  those  who  might  become 
proprietors. 

The  Committee  of  the  Horticultural  Society,  to  whom  was  referred  the 
method  of  raising  subscriptions  for  the  Experimental  Garden  and  Ceme- 
tery, beg  leave  to  Report  : — 

1.  That  it  is  expedient  to  purchase  for  a  Garden  and  Cemetery,  a  tract 
of  land,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  Sweet  Auburn,  near  the  road 
leading  from  Cambridge  to  Watertown,  containing  about  seventy-two  acres, 
for  the  sum  of  six  thousand  dollars  ;  provided  this  sum  can  be  raised  in  the 
manner  proposed  in  the  second  article  of  this  Report. 

2.  That  a  subscription  be  opened  for  lots  of  ground  in  the  said  tract,  con- 
taining not  less  than  two  hundred  square  feet  each,  at  the  price  of  sixty 
dollars  for  each  lot, — the  subscription  not  to  be  binding  until  one  hundred 
lots  are  subscribed  for. 

3.  That  when  a  hundred  or  more  lots  are  taken,  the  right  of  choice  shall 
be  disposed  of  at  an  auction,  of  which  seasonable  notice  shall  be  given  to 
the  subscribers. 

4.  That  those  subscribers,  who  do  not  offer  a  premium  for  the  right  of 
choosing,  shall  have  their  lots  assigned  to  them  by  lot. 

5.  That  the  fee  of  the  land  shall  be  vested  in  the  Massachusetts  Horti- 
cultural Society,  but  that  the  use  of  the  lots,  agreeably  to  an  act  of  the 
Legislature,  respecting  the  same,  shall  be  secured  to  the  subscribers,  their 
heirs,  and  assigns,  forever. 

6.  That  the  land  devoted  to  the  purpose  of  a  Cemetery  shall  contain  not 
less  than  forty  acres. 

7.  That  every  subscriber,  upon  paying  for  his  lot,  shall  become  a  mem- 
ber for  life,  of  the  Massachusetts  Horticultural  Society,  without  being  sub- 
ject to  assessments. 

8.  That  a  Garden  and  Cemetery  Committee,  of  nine  persons,  shall  be 
chosen  annually,  first  by  the  subscribers,  and  afterwards  by  the  Horticultu- 
ral Society,  whose  duty  it  shall  be  to  cause  the  necessary  surveys  and  al- 
lotments to  be  made,  to  assign  a  suitable  tract  of  land  for  the  Garden  of  the 
Society,  and  to  direct  all  matters  appertaining  to  the  regulation  of  the  Gar- 
den and  Cemetery  ;  and  five  at  least  of  this  Committee  shall  be  persons 
having  rights  in  the  Cemetry. 

9.  That  the  establishment,  including  the  Garden  and  Cemetery,  be  called 
by  a  definite  name,  to  be  supplied  by  the  Committee. 

The  protection  of  the  Legislature  of  the  Commonwealth,  being 
considered  indispensable,  the  following  Act,  was  applied  for  and 
obtained. 

COMMONWEALTH  OF  MASSACHUSETTS. 

In  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  thirty-one. 
An  Act,  in  addition  to  an  Act,  entitled  "  An  Act  to  incorporate  the  Massa- 
chusetts Horticultural  Society." 
Section!.     Be  it  enacted  by   the  Senate  and  House   of  Representatives,  in 
General  Court  assembled,  and  by  the  authority  of  the  same.  That  the  Massa- 


25 

chusetts  Horticultural  Society  he,  nnd  hereby  are,  authorised,  in  addition 
to  the  powers  already  conferred  on  them,  to  dedicate  and  appropriate  any 
part  ox  the  real  estate  now  owned  or  hereafter  to  be  purchased  by  them,  as 
and  for  a  Rural  Cemetery  or  Burying  Ground,  and  for  the  erection  of 
Tombs,  Cenotaphs,   or  other  Monuments,  for,  <>r  in  memory  of  the  dead  ; 

and  tor  this  purpose,  to  lay  OUt  the  same  in  suitable  lots  or  Other  subdi- 
visions, for  family,  and  oilier  burying  places  ;  and  to  plant  and  embellish  the 
same  with  shrubbery,  flowers,  trees,  walks,  and  other  rural  ornaments,  and 
to  enclose  and  divide  the  same  with  proper  walls  and  enclosures,  and  to 
make  and  annex  thereto  other  BUitable  appendages  and  conveniences,  as  the 
Society  shall  from  time  to  time  deem  expedient.  And  whenever  the  said 
Society  shall  so  lay  out  and  appropriate  any  of  their  real  estate  for  a  Ceme- 
tery or  Burying  Ground,  as  aforesaid,  the  same  shall  be  deemed  a  perpetual 
dedication  thereof  for  the  purposes  aforesaid  ;  and  the  real  estate  so  dedi- 
cated shall  be  forever  held  by  the  said  Society,  in  trust  for  such  purposes, 
and  for  none  other.  And  the  said  Society,  shall  have  authority  to  grant 
and  convey  to  any  person  or  persons,  the  sole  and  exclusive  right  of  burial, 
and  of  erecting  Tombs,  Cenotaphs,  and  other  Monuments,  in  any  such  de- 
signated lots  and  subdivisions,  upon  such  terms  and  conditions,  and  sub- 
ject to  such  regulations  as  the  said  Society  shall  by  their  by-laws  and  regu- 
lations prescribe.  And  every  right  so  granted  and  conveyed  shall  be  held 
for  the  purposes  aforesaid,  and  for  none  other,  as  real  estate,  by  the  pro- 
prietor or  proprietors  thereof,  and  shall  not  be  subject  to  attachment  or 
execution. 

Section  II.  Be  it  further  enacted,  That  for  the  purposes  of  this  Act,  the 
said  Society  shall  be,  and  hereby  are  authorised  to  purchase  and  hold  any 
real  estate  not  exceeding  ten  thousand  dollars  in  value,  in  addition  to  the 
real  estate  which  they  are  now  by  law  authorised  to  purchase  and  hold. 
And  to  enable  the  said  Society  more  effectually  to  carry  the  plan  aforesaid 
into  effect,  and  to  provide  funds  for  the  same,  the  said  Society  shall 
be,  and  hereby  are,  authorised  to  open  subscription  books,  upon  such 
terms,  conditions-,  and  regulations  as  the  said  Society  shall  prescribe, 
which  shall  be  deemed  fundamental  and  perpetual  articles,  between  the 
said  Society,  and  the  subscribers.  And  every  person,  who  shall  become 
a  subscriber  in  conformity  thereto,  shall  be  deemed  a  member  for  life  of  the 
said  Society  without  the  payment  of  any  other  assessment  whatsoever  ;  and 
shall  moreover  be  entitled,  in  fee  simple,  to  the  sole  and  exclusive  right  of 
using,  as  a  place  of  burial,  and  of  erecting  Tombs,  Cenotaphs,  and  other 
Monuments  in  such  lot  or  subdivision  of  such  Cemetery  or  Burying  Ground, 
as  shall  in  conformity  to  such  fundamental  articles  be  assigned  to  him. 

Section  III.  Be  it  further  emitted,  That  the  President  of  said  Society 
shall  have  authority  to  call  any  special  meeting  or  meetings  of  the  said  So- 
ciety, at  such  time  and  place  as  he  shall  direct,  for  the  purpose  of  carrying 
into  effect  any  or  all  the  purposes  of  this  Act,  or  any  other  purposes  within 
the  purview  of  the  original  Act,  to  which  this  Act  is  in  addition. 

In  House  of  Representatives,  June  22d,  1831.     Passed  to  be  enacted. 

WILLIAM  B.  CALHOUN,  Speaker. 

In  Senate,  June  23d,  1831.      Passed  to  be  enacted. 

LEVERETT  SALTONSTALL,  President. 

June  23d,  1831.  Approved. 

LEVI  LINCOLN 
A  true  Copy 

Attest,  EDWARD  D.  BANGS, 

Secretary  of  Commonwealth 


26 

At  a  meeting  of  subscribers,  called  August  3d,  1831,  it  ap- 
peared that  one  hundred  lots  in  the  Cemetery,  had  at  that  time 
been  taken  by  subscription  ;  and  that,  therefore,  agreeably  to  the 
terms,  the  subscription  had  become  obligatory.  The  following 
gentlemen  were  then  chosen  to  constitute  the  Garden  and  Ceme- 
tery Committee  : — Messrs.  Joseph  Story,  Henry  A.  S.  Dearborn, 
Jacob  Bigelow,  Edward  Everett,  George  W.  Brimmer,  George 
Bond,  Charles  Wells,  Benjamin  A.  Gould,  and  George  W.  Pratt. 
At  the  same  time  it  was  resolved  that  a  public  religious  consecra- 
tion should  be  held  upon  the  grounds,  and  the  following  gentle- 
men were  appointed  a  committee  to  make  arrangements  for  that 
purpose  : — Messrs.  Joseph  Story,  Henry  A.  S.  Dearborn,  Charles 
P.  Curtis,  Charles  Lowell,  Zebedee  Cook,  jr.,  Joseph  T. 
Buckingham,  George  W.  Brimmer,  George  W.  Pratt,  and  Z.  B. 
Adams. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Garden  and  Cemetery  Committee,  August 
8th,  it  was  voted  that  General  Dearborn,  Dr.  Bigelow,  and  Mr. 
Brimmer,  be  a  sub-committee  to  procure  an  accurate  topographi- 
cal survey  of  Mount  Auburn,  and  to  report  a  plan  for  laying  it 
out  into  lots.  This  sub-committee  engaged  the  services  of  Mr. 
Alexander  Wadworth,  Civil  Engineer,  with  whose  assistance  they 
have  now  completed  the  duty  assigned  to  them. 

The  public  religious  consecration  of  the  Cemetery,  took  place 
on  Saturday,  September  24th,  1831.  A  temporary  amphitheatre 
was  fitted  up  with  seats,  in  one  of  the  deep  vallies  of  the  wood, 
having  a  platform  for  the  speakers  erected  at  the  bottom.  An 
audience  of  nearly  two  thousand  persons  were  seated  among  the 
trees,  adding  a  scene  of  picturesque  beauty  to  the  impressive 
solemnity  of  the  occasion.  The  order  of  performances  was  as 
follows  : — 

1.  Instrumental  Music,  by  the  Boston  Band. 

2.  Introductory  Prayer,  by  Rev.  Dr.  Ware. 

3.  HYMN, 

Written  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Pierpont. 
To  thee,  O  God,  in  humble  trust, 

Our  hearts  their  cheerful  incense  burn, 
For  this  thy  word,  "  Thou  art  of  dust, 

And  unto  dust  shalt  thou  return." 

For,  what  were  life,  life's  work  all  done, 

The  hopes,  joys,  loves,  that  cling  to  clay, 
All,  all  departed,  one  by  one, 

And  yet  life's  load  borne  on  for  aye  ! 

Decay  !  Decay  !   'tis  stamped  on  all  ! 

All  bloom,  in  flower  and  flesh  shall  fade ; 
Ye  whispering  trees,  when  we  shall  fall, 

Be  our  long  sleep  beneath  your  shade  ! 


r, 

<•  to  tl-  v  bosom,  mother  Barth, 
Take  back,  in  peace,  whal  thou  hasl  given  ; 

And  all  that  is  oi  heavenly  birth, 
O  God,  in  peace,  recall  to  Heaven  : 

4.  ADDRESS 

BV   Tin:   I  Jos.  Jo  -i.iii  Si 

5.  Concluding  Prayer,  by  tin-  Rev.  .Mi".  Pisrpont. 

6.    Mi  -i'     Bl    i  ii  E   15  \M>. 

The  following  account  of  the  scene  is  taken  from  the  Boston 
Courier  of  the  time. 

An  unclouded  sun  and  an  atmosphere  purified  by  the  showers  of  the 
preceding-  night,  combined  to  make  the  day  one  of  the  most  delightful  we 
ever  experience  at  this  season  of  the  year.  It  is  unnecessary  for  us  to  Bay 
that  the  address  by  Judge  Story  was  pertinent  to  the  occasion,  for  if  the 
name  of  the  orator  were  not  sufficient,  the  perfect  silence  of  the  multitude, 
enabling  him  to  be  heard  with  distinctness  at  the  most  distant  part  of  the 
beautiful  amphitheatre  in  which  the  services  were  performed,  will  be  suffi- 
cient testimony  as  to  its  worth  and  beauty.  Neither  is  it  in  our  power  to 
furnish  any  adequate  description  of  the  effect  produced  by  the  music  of  the 
thousand  voices  which  joined  in  the  hymn,  as  it  swelled  in  chastened 
melody  from  the  bottom  of  the  glen,  and,  like  the  spirit  of  devotion,  found 
an  echo  in  every  heart,  and  pervaded  the  whole  scene. 

The  natural  features  of  Mount  Auburn  are  incomparable  for  the  purpose 
to  which  it  is  now  sacred.  There  is  not  in  all  the  untrodden  vallies  of  the 
West,  a  more  secluded,  more  natural  or  appropriate  spot  for  the  religious 
exercises  of  the  living  ;  we  may  be  allowed  to  add  our  doubts  whether  the 
most  opulent  neighborhood  of  Europe  furnishes  a  spot  so  singularly  appro- 
priate for  a  "  Garden  of  Graves." 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years,  when  the  hand  of  Taste  shall  have  passed 
over  the  luxuriance  of  Nature,  we  may  challenge  the  rivalry  of  the  world  to 
produce  another  such  abiding  place  for  the  spirit  of  beauty.  Mount  Auburn 
has  been  but  little  known  to  the  citizens  of  Boston  ;  but  it  has  now  become 
holy  ground,  and 

Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
— a  village  of  the  quick  and  the  silent,  where  Nature  throws  an  air  of  cheer- 
fulness over  the  labors  of  Death, — will  soon  be  a  place  of  more  general  re- 
sort, both  for  ourselves  and  for  strano-ers,  than  any  other  spot  in  the  vicinity. 
Where  else  shall  we  go  with  the  musings  of  Sadness,  or  for  the  indulgence 
of  Grief;  where  to  cool  the  burning  brow  of  Ambition,  or  relieve  the 
swelling  heart  of  Disappointment  ?  We  can  find  no  better  spot,  for  the 
rambles  of  curiosity,  health  or  pleasure  ;  none  sweeter,  for  the  whispers  of 
affection  among  the  living  ;  none  lovelier,  for  the  last  rest  of  our  kindred. 


The  tract  of  land  which  has  received  the  name  of  Mount 
Auburn,  is  situated  on  the  southerly  side  of  the  main  road  leading 
from  Cambridge  to  Watertown,  and  is  partly  within  the  limits  of 
each  of  those  towns.  Its  distance  from  Boston  is  about  four 
miles.  The  place  was  formerly  known  by  the  name  of  Stone's 
Woods,  the  title  to  most  of  the  land  having  remained  in  the 
family  of  Stone,  from  an  early  period  after  the  settlement  of 
the  country.  Within  a  few  years,  the  hill  and  part  of  the  wood- 
land were  offered   for  sale,  and  were  purchased  by  George  W. 


28 

Brimmer,  Esq.,  whose  object  was  to  prevent  the  destruction  of 
the  trees,  and  to  preserve  so  beautiful  a  spot  for  some  public,  or 
appropriate  use.  The  purchase  which  has  now  been  made  by  the 
Horticultural  Society,  includes  between  seventy  and  eighty  acres, 
extending  from  the  road,  nearly  to  the  banks  of  Charles  river.  A 
portion  of  the  land  situated  next  to  the  road,  and  now  under  cul- 
tivation, is  intended  to  constitute  the  Experimental  Garden  of  the 
Horticultural  Society.  A  long  water-course  extending  between 
this  tract  and  the  interior  woodland,  forms  a  natural  boundary, 
separating  the  two  sections.  The  inner  portion,  which  is  set 
apart  for  the  purposes  of  a  Cemetery,  is  covered,  throughout 
most  of  its  extent  with  a  vigorous  growth  of  forest  trees,  many 
of  them  of  large  size,  and  comprising  an  unusual  variety  of 
kinds.  This  tract  is  beautifully  undulating  in  its  surface,  con- 
taining a  number  of  bold  eminences,  steep  acclivities,  and  deep 
shadowy  vallies.  A  remarkable  natural  ridge  with  a  level  surface 
runs  through  the  ground  from  south-east  to  north-west  and  has  for 
many  years  been  known  as  a  secluded  and  favorite  walk.  The 
principal  eminence,  called  Mount  Auburn  in  the  plan,  is  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  feet  above  the  level  of  Charles  river,  and 
commands  from  its  summit  one  of  the  finest  prospects  which  can 
be  obtained  in  the  environs  of  Boston.  On  one  side  is  the  city 
in  full  view,  connected  at  its  extremities  with  Charlestown  and 
Roxbury.  The  serpentine  course  of  Charles  river,  with  the  cul- 
tivated hills  and  fields  rising  beyond  it,  and  having  the  Blue 
Hills  of  Milton  in  the  distance,  occupies  another  portion  of  the 
landscape.  The  village  of  Cambridge,  with  the  venerable  edifi- 
ces of  Harvard  University,  are  situated  about  a  mile  to  the  east- 
ward. On  the  north,  at  a  very  small  distance,  Fresh  Pond  ap- 
pears, a  handsome  sheet  of  water,  finely  diversified  by  its  woody 
and  irregular  shores.  Country  seats  and  cottages  seen  in  various 
directions,  and  especially  those  on  the  elevated  land  at  Water- 
town,  add  much  to  the  picturesque  effect  of  the  scene.  It  is 
proposed  to  erect  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Auburn,  a  Tower, 
after  some  classic  model,  of  sufficient  height  to  rise  above  the 
tops  of  the  surrounding  trees.  This  will  serve  the  double  pur- 
pose of  a  landmark  to  identify  the  spot  from  a  distance,  and  of  an 
observatory  commanding  an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  coun- 
try around  it.  From  the  foot  of  this  monument  will  be  seen  in 
detail  the  features  of  the  landscape,  as  they  are  successively  pre- 
sented through  the  different  vistas  which  have  been  opened  among 
the  trees ;  while  from  its  summit,  a  magnificent  and  unbroken 
panorama,  embracing  one  of  the  most  delightful  tracts  in  New- 
England,  will  be  spread  out  beneath  the  eye.  Not  only  the  con- 
tiguous country,  but  the  harbor  and  the  bay  of  Boston,  with  their 
ships  and  islands,  and,  in  a  clear  atmosphere,   the  distant  moun- 


29 

tains  of  Wachusett,  and  probably,  even  of  Monadnock,   will  be 
comprehended  within  the  range  of  vision. 

The  grounds  of  the  Cemetery  have  been  laid  out  with  inter- 
secting avenues,  so  as  to  render  every  pari  of  the  wood  accessi- 
ble. These  avenues  arc  curved  and  variously  winding  in  their 
course,  so  as  to  he  adapted  to  the  natural  inequalities  of  the  sur- 
face. By  this  arrangement,  the  greatest  economy  of  the  land  is 
produced,  combining  at  the  same  time  the  picturesque  effect  of 
landscape  gardening.  Over  the  more  level  portion-,  the  avenues 
are  made  twenty  feet  wide,  and  are  suitable  for  carriage  roads. 
The  more  broken  and  precipitous  parts  are  approached  by  loot- 
paths,  which  are  six  feet  in  width.  These  passage-ways  are  to  be 
smoothly  gravelled,  and  planted  on  both  sides  with  flowers  and 
ornamental  shrubs.  Lots  of  ground,  containing  each  three 
hundred  square  feet,  are  set  off,  as  family  burial  places,  at  suita- 
ble distances  on  the  sides  of  the  avenues  and  paths.  The  per- 
petual right  of  inclosing  and  of  using  these  lots,  as  places  of 
sepulture,  is  conveyed  to  the  purchasers  of  them,  by  the  Horticul- 
tural Society.  It  is  confidently  expected  that  many  of  the  pro- 
prietors will,  without  delay,  proceed  to  erect  upon  their  lots  such 
monuments  and  appropriate  structures,  as  will  give  to  the  place  a 
part  of  the  solemnity  and  beauty,  which  it  is  destined  ultimately 
to  acquire. 

It  has  been  voted  to  procure,  or  construct,  a  receiving  tomb  in 
Boston,  and  another  at  Mount  Auburn,  at  which,  if  desired, 
funerals  may  terminate,  and  in  which  the  remains  of  the  deceased 
may  be  deposited,  until  such  time  as  the  friends  shall  choose  to 
direct  their  removal  to  the  Cemetery  ;  this  period,  however,  not 
to  exceed  six  months. 

The  principal  entrance  to  Mount  Auburn,  will  be  through  a 
lofty  Egyptian  gateway,  which  it  is  proposed  to  erect  on  the 
main  road,  at  the  commencement  of  the  Central  Avenue.  Anoth- 
er entrance  or  gateway  is  provided  on  the  cross  road  at  the  eastern 
foot  of  the  hill.  Whenever  the  funds  of  the  corporation  shall 
justify  the  expense,  it  is  proposed  that  a  small  Grecian  or  Gothic 
Temple  shall  be  erected  on  a  conspicuous  eastern  eminence, 
which  in  reference  to  this  allotment  has  received  the  prospective 
name  of  Temple  Hill. 

As  the  designation  and  conveyance  of  the  lots  requires  that  they 
should  be  described  with  reference  to  places  bearing  fixed  ap- 
pellations, it  has  been  found  necessary  to  give  names  to  the 
avenues,  foot-paths,  hills,  &,c.  The  names  which  have  been 
adopted,  were  suggested  chiefly  by  natural  objects  and  obvious 
associations.  Taken  in  connexion  with  the  printed  plan,  they 
will  be  found  sufficient  to  identify  any  part  of  the  ground,  without 
the  probability  of  mistake. 


AVENUES. 

Beech   Avenue  leads  from  Central  to  Poplar. 

Cedar  "  "  Cypress  to  Walnut. 

Central  "  "  North  entrance  to  Walnut. 

Chesnut  "  "  Mountain  to  Poplar. 

Cypress  "  "  Central  to  Walnut. 

Garden  "  "  Cross  Road  to  Central. 

Larch  "  "  Poplar  to  Maple. 

Laurel  "  "  Walnut  round  Laurel  Hill. 

Locust  "  "  Beech  to  Poplar. 

Magnolia  "  "  Chesnut  to  Maple. 

Maple  "  "  Magnolia  to  Garden. 

Mountain  "  "  Chesnut  round  Mount  Auburn. 

Oak  "  "  Willow  to  Larch. 

Pine  "  "  Cypress  to  Central. 

Poplar  "  "  Central  to  Chesnut. 

Walnut  "  "  Central  to  Mountain. 

Willow  "  "  Poplar  to  Larch. 


FOOT-PATHS. 

Alder  Path      leads  from  Locust  avenue  to  Poplar  avenue. 

Catalpa  "  "  Indian  ridge  path  to  the  same. 

Hawthorn  "  "  Chesnut  avenue  to  Hazel  path. 

Hazel  "  "  Hawthorn  path  to  Mountain  avenue. 

Hemlock  "  "  Ivy  path  to  Poplar  avenue. 

Holly  "  "  Poplar  avenue  to  Ivy  path. 

Indian  ridge     "  "  Larch  avenue  to  Central  avenue. 

Iris  "  "  Ivy  path  to  Moss  path. 

Ivy  "  "  Poplar  avenue  to  Woodbine  path. 

Jasmine  "  "  Hawthorn  path  to  Chesnut  avenue. 

Lilac  "  "  Indian  ridge  path  to  Willow  avenue. 

Lily  "  "  Woodbine  path  to  Poplar  avenue. 

Linden  "  "  Beech  avenue  to  the  same. 

Myrtle  "  "  Chesnut  avenue  to  Hazel  path. 

Moss  "  "  Ivy  path  to  Laurel  avenue. 

Olive  "  "  Myrtle  path  to  Sweetbriar  path. 

Osier  "  "  Indian  ridge  path  to  Willow  avenue. 

Rose  "  "  Hawthorn  path  to  the  same. 

Sumac  "  "  Moss  path  to  Violet  path. 

Sweetbriar  "  "  Chesnut  avenue  to  Hawthorn  path. 

Violet  "  "  Laurel  avenue  to  Ivy  path. 

Vine  "  "  Moss  path  to  Ivy  path. 

Woodbine  "  "  Hawthorn  path  round  Cedar  hill. 


Mount  Auburn, 
Harvard  hill, 
Temple  hill, 
Juniper  hill, 


HILLS 


Cedar  hill, 
Pine  hill, 
Laurel  hill. 


PRESENT  SUBSCKNiKKS  TO   MOUNT   AI'IJURN. 


Abel  Adams, 
Benjamin  Adams, 
C.  Frederic  Adams, 
Z.  B.  Adams, 
Nathan  Appleton, 
Samuel  Appleton, 
James  T.  Austin, 
William  Austin, 
Charles  Barnard, 
Charles  B.  Brown, 
G.  W.  Brimmer, 
Jacob  Bigelow, 
George  Bond, 
J.  B.  Brown, 
Benjamin  Bussey, 
Joseph  P.  Bradlee, 
I.  Barker, 
J.  T.  Buckingham, 
Edwin  Buckingham, 
James  Boyd, 
John  Brown, 
Levi  Brigham, 
Charles  Brown, 
Ebenezer  Bailey, 
Joshua  Blake, 
Dennis  Brigham, 
Jesse  Bird, 
Zebedee  Cook,  Jr., 
Charles  P.  Curtis, 
Thomas  B.  Curtis, 
Joseph  Coolidge, 
Samuel  F.  Coolidge, 


Alpheus  Can  , 
George  W.  Coffin, 
Joshua  Clapp, 
George  G.  Channing, 
E.  Craigie, 
Joshua  Coolidge, 
H.  A.  S.  Dearborn, 
John  Davis, 
Daniel  Davis, 
Franklin  Dexter, 
Warren  Dutton, 
Daniel  Denny, 
James  Davis, 
James  A.  Dickson, 
Richard  C.  Derby, 
Alexander  H.  Everett, 
Edward  Everett, 
David  Eckley, 
John  Farrar, 
Robert  Farley, 
Richard  Fletcher, 
Charles  Folsom, 
David  Francis, 
Benjamin  Fisk, 
B.  B.  Grant, 
John  C.  Gray, 
B.  A.  Gould, 
Elisha  Haskell, 
Charles  Hickling, 
Zachariah  Hicks, 
Abraham  Howard, 
Thomas  Hastings, 


32 


Henderson  Inches, 
William  Ingalls, 
Deming  Jarvis, 
Joseph  B.  Joy, 
George  H.  Kuhn, 
William  Lawrence, 
Amos  Lawrence, 
Abbott  Lawrence, 
Isaac  Livermore, 
Josiah  Loring, 
John  Lemist, 
Charles  Lowell, 
Isaac  McLellan, 
Isaac  Mead, 
Robert  D.  C.  Merry, 
Francis  J.  Oliver, 
John  Pierpont, 
George  W.  Pratt, 
Samuel  Pond, 
Edward  W.  Payne, 
T.  H.  Perkins,  Jr., 
Francis  Parkman, 
Isaac  Parker, 
Josiah  Quincy, 
John  Randall, 
Henry  Rice, 
James  Read, 
J.  P.  Rice, 
J.  L.  Russell, 
Joseph  Story, 
Henry  B.  Stone, 


George  C.  Shattuck, 
William  Stanwood, 
David  Stanwood, 
L.  M.  Sargent, 
D.  A.  Simmons, 
James  T.  Savage, 
Robert  G.  Shaw, 
Jared  Sparks, 
James  Savage, 
P.  R.  L.  Stone, 
Leonard  Stone, 
Asahel  Stearns, 
David  Stone, 
Charles  Tappan, 
Frederic  Tudor, 
J.  F.  Thayer, 
Peter  Thacher, 
Supply  C.  Thwing, 
Charles  Wells, 
Samuel  Whitwell, 
S.  G.  Williams, 
Benjamin  F.  White, 
Abijah  White, 
Thomas  Wiley, 
Thomas  B.  Wales, 
Rufus  Wyman, 
Henry  Ware, 
Benjamin  Waterhouse, 
Samuel  Walker, 
F.  S.  J.  Winship, 
Jonathan  Winship. 


